


while seeking revenge, dig two graves - one for yourself

by sherlocked10097



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Choking, Face Punching, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, RP format, Sheriarty - Freeform, Smut, Violence, mentions of another character death too, some cold shit here s2g
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 17:26:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12635721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocked10097/pseuds/sherlocked10097
Summary: "Not Dead" had been, in Sherlock's mind, an entirely appropriate way to declare himself to John.When he finds out the same is true of his former lover Jim, how will he handle it?





	while seeking revenge, dig two graves - one for yourself

Jim hadn't wanted to _be_ in London for the big reveal, but knew getting in the country after would be practically impossible. And what if Sherlock would want the impossible, the undreamable, just as it turned out in the end? If he was willing to see Jim, as he'd seemed to be over disbelieving texts, Jim was willing to see him.

More than willing.

Of course, perched on the edge of the hotel bed, wringing his hands at the end of a too-long wait, things did seem less certain. This was as terrifying as love had ever been back then, though may not screw them up _as_ much. Good the cologne he wore mixed well with and concealed sweat, for his nerves were jangled. Would Sherlock be happy, sorrowful, berate him, kiss him? Impossible to know. But they'd see each other and just _know_ , wouldn't they? Or had so much changed?

  
Nothing to do but eye the yet unopened wine, and wait what felt like three more eternal years for the knock.

-

Sherlock had long been nursing the idea in his mind that he was _insane_. It had begun in early childhood, the first time being when, at five, no one could understand what he was saying when he was trying to explain musical theory. Situations like that popped up all the time, where people would look at him after he spoke as if it were gibberish.

So maybe that's why he'd accepted Jim's offer of affection years ago. Moriarty, as much as everyone reviled the mention of his existence, validated the detective's entire life and work. For a while, he felt _good_.

And then it was all taken away.

"Brother dear, do pay attention." Mycroft's voice chided, "We're at your flat."

The ride back had been uncomfortably silent, both brothers staring intently out the window, avoiding the elephant; Mycroft knowing his brother would run immediately back to danger, Sherlock knowing he wouldn't even try to make an excuse.

He murmured his thanks, exciting the car, trying not to seem too eager to get back. Once he was in the door, he checked the crack in the stairs for a note — sure enough, there was an address, written in such familiar handwriting that it made his heart somersault.

He waited half an hour before sneaking out his window.

In this moment, hailing a cab to the hotel, Sherlock knows he  _must_ be insane. Seeking out, _immediately_ seeking out the man that ripped out his heart for a glorified joke to hide his cowardice, that he most certainly  _did not_ care about anymore...

This was just to check in. That was it. He got out of the cab, heading in the building, finding himself at the right door all too soon. He knocked timidly, almost forgetting how angry he was, just wanting to make sure Jim was still alive...

-

The sound met Jim's ears crisp, clear, knocking him from his reverie. Well. The moment of truth. Even if truth always did take a lot longer than a moment.

He rose from the bed, licking his lips nervously, and peered through the peephole, heartrate spiking. There'd be little way to play it as cool as he had in texts. Because Sherlock was right there and all that separated them were countless memories, the worst sort of deception and a thin layer of wood.

Way, way too late to call this off.

Jim drew in a long breath, tipping his head back as he released it, straightening again as he reached for the knob and opened the door.

From down the hall came the raucous laughter of a family waiting for the elevator, but Jim barely heard it over his pulse in his ears as he stared up at Sherlock. Tall, beautiful, eternal Sherlock. A few lines around his eyes, oh, not the twinky little thing he used to be, but who was anymore? He was still _stunning_. Jim's mouth was dry, slack, the smallest of relieved smiles turning it up at the corner. _Speak. Invite him in. Say you still love him. Touch him to make sure he's real this time. Do anything, **move**._ But Jim was stock still; his breath had caught, tumbling gently out around a none-too-discreetly awed, "Hey."

-

_Hey._ The word, so casual, so unlike how they used to greet each other... It was jarring. Sherlock blinked it away, almost unable to see Jim through it... He still looked exactly as he did, so well preserved, taking care of himself. Sherlock was almost envious. And the urge to punch him reemerged.

Only to be stopped by the fact he loved that stupid face. "Good day." He replied, then glanced around, "May I come in? I'm not supposed to be here, you know." Even with every confidence Jim wouldn't expose them, Mycroft remained ever vigilant.

-

Good day? Well, Jim supposed it was. Why were they talking when they could be kissing?

"Nah, figured I'd just leave you in the hallway, let everyone and their mother see us chatting," Jim mumbled, glancing down in mild shame at the cavalier tone as he swung the door further open. It was a _shock_ to see Sherlock again so close, like looking directly into the goddamn sun.

Jim's arm reached out before he could stop himself, a physical apology for the cavalier tone, but didn't touch. "..Lemme hang your coat?" he asked, glancing back up, expression all uncertainty as to whether this was finding a foothold as to how to proceed. Be better if he knew what Sherlock wanted of him, too. What to expect.

-

Sherlock walked in, unsure of what to do. He was here, that was something, but still bordering on unbearable. At Jim's suggestion, he tensed, then shrugged out of his coat, falling back on fixed conversational cues, "I can do it." He lightly placed it on the hook on the back of the door — touching him, even indirectly, could end disastrously.  
Hard to look at him when the rage was so mixed in with his  _need_ to hold him. Kiss him hard enough to chase away the distance... "... How've you been?" If he were going to hit cliches, might as well be all of them.

-

Jim had crossed his arms over his chest, watching, noting: willing to get comfortable, but no touching. That was fine. Sort of a funny question, to try to sum up all that time away. Jim swallowed, loosening his arms to reach up and scratch idly at his nose. "Told you -ups, downs....Today was a laugh...at first," he admitted then adjusted, because Sherlock he always took seriously. Oh, wine would help. He made a beeline for the bottle and opener, hands trembling hopefully un-noticeably as his back was to Sherlock. "Past few hours mostly...worrying you wouldn't make it out." _Or wouldn't want to._

-

Sherlock nodded, watching Jim's movements, "Trying to get me drunk?" He asked, an air of flirtation under the forced deadpan, meandering farther into the room. He leaned against the wall, "I suppose I could use it... Getting off death row is a bit disorienting." _Could use an excuse to relax._

-

_I'd have **offered** , not forced it down your throat..._ "Call it a....celebratory drink," Jim murmured as he wrenched the bottle open, too nerve-wracked for mirth despite how celebratory it really all was. How many times had he envisioned this night? Seeing Sherlock again...maybe it should have happened under different circumstances, but...oh well. He poured the first cup slowly as he spoke. "Magnussen's gone, that dick...You have a get out of jail free card so long's I keep you busy...Lots to celebrate." He poured the second cup and moved nearer, handing it Sherlock's way. _Don't look at him, don't, but have to, it's been ages._ "This, too," Jim added finally - _this, us._ \- as he met Sherlock's eyes once more.

-

Sherlock took the offered cup warily. The reasoning was sound, he supposed, "Trash needed removal, so I did." His eyes met Jim's, but his mouth went dry, gaze faltering, falling to the red liquid, "This..." He echoed, swirling the wine, swallowing hard, "Jim... There is no _this_." The words cut him deep. He never wanted to say... Never pictured it before. But it had to be said.

-

The barest brush of fingertips were necessary, meant nothing. Then why did it make Jim hiss in his head, want to both throw himself into the fire and flee it at once? He watched Sherlock's conflict, his downcast eyes, the bob of his fine throat.

Did Sherlock really think Jim didn't know that, and accept it for all it could and couldn't be? Or thought he had. The reminder hit hard. "Yeah, I...just meant seeing you again," Jim's eyebrows and shoulders rose and fell together. "Sounded nicer as something to drink to than...that. Cheers, Sherlock," Jim sighed softly, taking a long first swig and sitting again on the edge of the bed with a soft fwump.

-

"Cheers." It came out more bitter than intended. He took a similarly long drink, but had the feeling he'd need a lot more, and at least a gram of cocaine before he was ready to handle _this_. He let the back of his head hit the wall, staring at the ceiling, "Was Moran in on it?"

-

Salt upon wounds...Jim's jaw tightened, angles all hard, and his eyes closed. Two fingers came to press at his own forehead but so lightly, like a caress, to coax out a memory better left buried. "Ah...'bout...three months ago, he...stickier situation than we planned for, he got a little...ambushed, um. He. Called me when he was...bleeding out...made his- said what he needed to..." Funny how it didn't actually answer Sherlock's question. But fine. If Sherlock said there was no This to drink to, fine, this one was for Sebastian. Though he'd never much liked reds. Jim frowned, and indulged in another long sip just to encourage his throat to keep from closing.

-

Sherlock froze. Moran. Gone. Jim's Watson. "Oh." Sherlock hadn't personally known the  man, nor how deep the criminal and his sniper's relationship had been... But based on his reaction, it was best not to point out things could've been different if Jim hadn't abandoned them all. "Condolences." He took another sip, "Suppose I should tell you I am at least grateful... That you aren't lost. Forever."

-

Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Hadn't that been part of the reason he'd left Sherlock, because death would get either of them eventually and it would kill the other, so why not do it all quick and early, save themselves? He was breathing. And Sherlock appreciated that. Jim nodded, and scooted from the center of the bed's edge to one side, clearly making room for Sherlock if he chose to sit. "Know in my heart if it'd been me...I'd have called _you_ ," Jim declared grimly, looking at the blood-red wine. "But I suppose that's insensitive to say, given what I did instead..."

-

"Mm." Sherlock hummed. Yes. "Dying reveals our priorities," he said somberly, pinching his nose for a moment. He set the glass aside on the dresser, crossing his arms, "I would've called you. But I was completely incapacitated from the moment the bullet burrowed into my chest..." He closed his eyes, tears pricking at the edges, "But I thought of you."

-

Why were they talking about so much death? Jim had wanted to send flowers, but if he hadn't have been able to let Sherlock know they were from him, what was the point?  
Losing both of them, for real, so close together, had been unthinkable.

"Darling." As if there weren't several reasons _not_ to find such nicknames inappropriate now. He wanted softer thoughts than these. "Will you come here."

A demanding question but in the gentlest way. Could have been seen as condescending, but Jim didn't mean it that way. Sherlock looked so tired... "Sit with me?"  
Just sitting. Close. Skittish and with little they'd admit to celebrating, but not alone.

-

_Come here._ The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched down. "Why?" He wanted to. Wanted nothing more from the moment he'd gotten any sign Jim was still alive. And he shouldn't, because it's dangerous.

Regardless, he got off the wall, taking a few steps, sitting on the edge of the mattress, half a foot of space between he and Jim, "... Does this help?"

-

Why? _Because halfway across the room you're way too far away..._

He used to be able to meet Sherlock's eyes for a long while. What happened? Oh, right.

Guilt. Shame. Jim's first real taste of these things.

With no real way to make up for them.

"Dunno," he answered softly, setting a hand behind himself on the mattress so he could tilt and look at Sherlock more naturally. Jim's eyes were solemn but full of the sad love he couldn't kill even though he'd tried.

"Does it?"

-

_Seeing as I asked, isn't it a safe assumption that I don't know?_ Sherlock gripped the edge of the bed, tossing his head to the side, wondering if he could actually feel his heavy thoughts rattle around, _That, and you asked me over here..._ He let out a weary sigh. If there were a name ascribed to a feeling between love and disgust and anger and apprehension and fear, he might be less confused, "No... and yes." He admitted, "In equal measure."

-

"Yeah, I know what you mean," Jim murmured with the faintest of smiles. "Helps with the missing," he volunteered for his part, "I think." Except it just made Jim want to be closer; given an inch he'd want miles, but not dare take them. Even now, he looked at Sherlock like a precious thing, and wondered why they weren't touching. He regretted ever leaving.

-

Sherlock grimaced, feeling a rush of energy. Adrenaline. His body, for all it knew, for all the scars and experience, still reacted as if Jim were still his. As if Sherlock, too, still _belonged_. A decision had to be made. "Answer me one thing, then," he said, voice taking on an intensity, a compromise of his rage and lingering hurt. "Lie, and I will leave." He added, running a hand over his face before making eye contact, almost staring his companion down. "Are you back because you're no longer afraid, or because you've got nothing to fear?" _Because you're still in love and you grew a spine, or because you aren't?_

-

Pupils flickering as he searched Sherlock's face, Jim considered the question as his own evinced quiet surprise. "I'm back because you almost died before we could talk again. But specific to _your question,_ I don't... _have_ you, Sherlock. You're walking around my heart all the time, sure, but that has nothing to do with the reality of things..." Jim shrugged limply, brow furrowed as he looked away again; the daydream that Sherlock might forgive him, want to be with him, was too distant a thing to set sights on. Somewhere past the void. Or if Sherlock didn't want, it still might not be wise. "If I did have _something_ to lose, I'd see it differently than before. I know that much."

-

_Pity._ Sherlock swallowed. It'd be better for the both of them if at least one weren't still in love. Then the urge to seek revenge couldn't possibly be fulfilled. _I should warn him about that..._ But if Sherlock had the decency to do so, he might die of shock that he was finally growing a conscience. Love was an easily exploitable weakness. But for the man constantly on guard, _how?_ "And if I were yours again?"

-

Was Sherlock really considering that? Jim's heart made a leap for its ribcage but stayed contained. Hasty. And Jim still didn't believe it really possible. Even if he wanted...

He looked sidelong at Sherlock, saying after a long moment, "You could do better," before he rose again. Didn't need more wine yet but a splash extra would be a great distraction from caving, telling Sherlock everything he'd wished, longed for when they were apart. Jim wasn't an idiot. The magnitude of his fuck-up didn't escape him.

-

Sherlock smirked devilishly. Perhaps he shouldn't play it up too far. Jim knew him quite intimately — knew how he treated those outside his circle of sentiment. And Sherlock, for all he had known, still had but a fraction of that knowledge if he'd been unable to guess he'd die or fake his death for destroying him. "I think I've proven that." Sherlock agreed dully, rolling his eyes, "Yet here I am. In this room." He fell backward, feet still planted on the floor, "In this bed."

-

Shoulders stiffening at the words, Jim bit his lip. What was Sherlock after, really? Hard to say. Everything was so strange...should he have pulled Sherlock into a long hug at the very start, avoided some of this awkwardness? Presumptuous. He took another sip, turned around to look at him, and couldn't help but let his gaze wander up lean, long, lovely legs to the rest of him. Memories. Slightly crestfallen suddenly that he had no right to immediately straddle his soul-lover. Fuck. Sherlock was looking at the ceiling rather than Jim, and pacing over, Jim leaned down enough to rap his knuckles against Sherlock's knee. First touch in three years - someone had to make that move - but not particularly seductive or kind. "Checking your reflexes," he said by way of odd explanation, a tad sardonic, because Sherlock was clearly testing him. Fair. Expected. Didn't mean he liked it. He stood straight, fingers wrapped protectively around his wine, unable to tear his eyes from Sherlock's stony and kissable face. "Bullet leave a scar?"

-

First touch. Not what he'd been expecting. Nor something easily deconstructed. On purpose, obviously. Sherlock filed it away, left hand caressing over his torso, finding the raised, ugly scar through the thin fabric of his shirt."Here," he answered. Stitches closed most of it, but some of the nearby skin had shredded, not a priority for the surgeons. "Comparatively it's quite small... Hard to believe all the problems it caused."

-

Jim wanted to see it and didn't know why. But if Sherlock had wanted to show him, he would have. "Problems?" he asked softly and as simply as a child; a distressing thought, that it might keep Sherlock in pain... He sat down gingerly again, peering down at Sherlock where he lay, resisting every urge to cover the lithe and familiar body with his own. "Tell me..."

-

Sherlock shrugged, eyes scanning the ceiling before landing on Jim again, tilting slightly against the mattress. "Internal bleeding. Even surviving the initial shot..." He blinked rapidly. Humans had a poor memory for pain, he knew this objectively. But that didn't stop a phantom flame from coursing through his veins. "Doesn't guarantee survival when it comes to wounds like this." It would be kinder not to flaunt his scar. Which was exactly why he began unbuttoning his shirt languidly, eyes returning to a fixed point on the ceiling.

-

Lips parting and closing again on something unspoken, Jim watched Sherlock's elegant fingers and before he could help it, his own hand had shot out, curled around them, clamping, stopping it in its tracks. Getting Sherlock's attention. "Don't." His eyes were wide, stricken, intense. Over a few seconds he'd changed his mind. That much skin would be too much. Did Sherlock not realize what it was, to be near him again, hear his voice again for real? "Unless you want me to kiss it better."

-

Sherlock's lips drew up into a disbelieving smile. After all this time? "I doubt a kiss will do much to add to what the surgeons did." But his hand had stopped, frozen under Jim's grasp, his silent plead. What did he want? Jim stopped him, looked half-dead himself rather than amused at this attempted disrobing, "Are you afraid yet?"

-

_Terrified._

The years Sherlock had gained on his face didn't make him any less beautiful when he smiled. He was _enjoying_ this for whatever it was. In a way, Jim was, too. It was better than distance and silence. But there was too much he couldn't be sure was allowed. And such a question. How did Sherlock guess, was it his look or that his hand hadn't left it's clench of the other's fingers, right over his heart? His own was racing again, and he blinked, gaze darting helplessly to Sherlock's lips and back up to his clear blue eyes. Some kind of torment. They should know better. But Jim was leaning down a little closer, drawn in. "Of offending you, yes..." he murmured. Sherlock should push him away. Should say no, if there was nothing to be found or gained here anymore. Jim hadn't even meant to test it, but it seemed the whole world and the future of everything hinged on this moment.

-

Sherlock's smile faltered, wetting his lips. "Please... I think we're a tad beyond 'offense'," he whispered. If this was truly his plan, his angle, it was working. He propped himself up on his elbow, not moving the hand still crushed in Jim's grasp. There was _something_ , trapped in his chest, desperate to get out. He didn't break eye contact —  sincerity hid beneath the excuses, behind Jim's pained gaze. "Haven't I earned your candor?" Paid for it in years, in sorrow, in blood, in the days he spent at death's door, secretly happy he wouldn't have to live without him anymore.

-

Closer and closer and closer. No matter how Jim would have liked to kill the hope blooming painfully in his heart, it seemed immortal. And Sherlock certainly had earned it. Candor right now...would be kisses for hours, a desperation to express the inexpressible. God, but he wanted...but did Sherlock, really? How foolish exactly was all of this? Jim tilted his head slightly as the distance was closed, pressing his cheek and forehead to Sherlock's, hand easing up enough that his thumb could stroke the back of Sherlock's as he sighed, long and grateful and mournful and _home_. "Missed you..."

-

It was always surprising, no matter how many times Sherlock had seen it, how soft Jim could be. A reputation for being evil, cold, ruthless, and here he was practically  _snuggling_ with someone who, despite loving him back, wasn't going to forgive him until he'd taken his pound of flesh. "I didn't... But I wasn't aware I had anything to miss..."

-

Closing his eyes, he drew in a shaky breath and Sherlock's scent with it. Jim had had dreams like this one. Daydreams, too. But in them, he was slightly less aware of being undeserving. The sense of it kept him from going too far. "I'm sorry," he whispered, feeling the need to say it despite no guarantee or reason for forgiveness. Too soon. That he was allowed to touch Sherlock at all, was a marvel.

-

Sherlock withdrew, leaning back, breaking their contact only to press his lips to Jim's cheek. "Thank you," he replied, murmuring against his skin. For a moment, he could forget the toxic feelings. Could forget the anger in place of how right it felt.  His other half, back in his reach, reminding him what it meant to feel vulnerable.

But at Vulnerable, Sherlock internally cringed. Jim apologized, but he couldn't possibly understand... Not yet.

-

Jim's head bowed, and he flinched a little at the kiss. It  _hurt_ because it was perfect. He smiled weakly, hand dropping away from Sherlock's to rest limply between their legs on the bed. "We shouldn't be here...but I don't want to be anywhere else..."

-

"Considering most of our activities would be condemned, I'm surprised cuddling platonically, where we can't hurt anyone, even ranks..." Hurt anyone  _else_. Sherlock closed his eyes, leaning into Jim. He wanted to cry. Shed a tear of joy,  followed by at least six thousand over the years and trust he'd never get back. Years that could've been spent exactly like this. "What now?"

-

Barely cuddling. Barely platonic. Though he supposed Sherlock had a point, in the grand scheme of things. Though why it was all happening so soon, rather than Jim being given rightful runaround, was puzzling despite its necessity. Had to feel out each other's ghost, make sure they were a solid thing. "Don't know..." His hand moved again, rising to Sherlock's cheek, stroking it tenderly as he pulled back enough to look at him. They should be happier. Too much muck to wade through. Possibly forever. Jim swallowed. "I thought...dark, cynical little brain of mine...it thought I was doing us a favor in the long run..."

-

Sherlock grimaced, giving a dry, almost mirthless laugh, "In the future..." He properly sat up, removing Jim's hand to grip it in his own, "When you make large, life-altering decisions that invariably affect us both..." He tilted his head in mock innocence. "Consult me first?"

-

Future? Interesting. Jim listened carefully, noting that Sherlock was finally touching him back though perhaps to stave off the tenderness. But oh, that look. It could've been funny or warm but seemed designed bespoke to make Jim feel worse. He glanced warily, guiltily at Sherlock before looking down once more. It wasn't that Jim doubted Sherlock back then, precisely, but part of the explanation hinged on...themselves! Being themselves. Sherlock's cold resilience, no matter what. "...this isn't an excuse, but I guess I didn't realize...that it would really hurt you at all..."

-

Red. Couldn't even process what heinous thing had just come out of Jim's mouth. John's gun had been confiscated. So Sherlock had to settle for his fist, finding its way,  _hard,_ to the side of Jim's cheek.

He breathed deeply, as he shook out his hand, stinging from the blow. He'd been willing to forgo hurting the man physically for the possibility of emotionally, but he had hard lines even he couldn't let go unenforced.

"Sorry. Didn't think _that_ would hurt you at all."

-

Well, that snatched Jim out of his mental burrow of shame. Knocked him most of the way off the bed, too, with the force and surprise of it. Was his cheekbone broken? Maybe not quite, but it hurt like a _mother_ fucker. Stunned, he knelt on the floor, one elbow on the edge of the bed, hand pressed over what was sure to be an ugly bruise.  _Ow._

Had to happen. He knew it, had perhaps goaded it, and better that than his nose, but there was a hint of betrayal in his eyes. Sebastian socked him in the gut from time to time, the ear before, but that was Seb. That he deserved it had no bearing on this being new, and the physical pain atop the emotional brought a shimmer of tears to his eyes. Speechless for a long few moments, before managing drily, "Point taken..."

-

Sherlock huffed. That didn't make him feel better. An expression of anger, but none of it was released. "Hopefully it sinks in. But if we were going for physical representations of what you did to me, figuratively, I'd have to stab you in the back, and then yank out your heart through the wound." Sherlock stood up, sidestepping Jim and heading to the dresser, taking a sip of his forgotten wine. "And to _finish_ , as was your goal, set you on fire." Malice dripped through his voice, spitting, cutting. He didn't feel like he was in love anymore.

-

What might the night have been if Jim had been bold enough to kiss him? Much different than this. Thousands of people had wished for such for James Moriarty over the course of his career. But for Sherlock to speak of it...well. In context, it was really a testament to what he'd once felt. Everything Jim had _thrown away_ because he let his head overrule his heart rather than simply keep even pace with it. "Is that really how it felt?" he asked quietly, staring at Sherlock's back, beginning to rise on legs that felt awfully shaky. Sherlock might not even register that what he was saying was touching. Jim sure did.

-

"Yes," Sherlock snarled, finishing the glass, setting it down hard against the wooden desk. "Congratulations." He spun on his heels, glaring at Jim, merciless and pained. "Don't you _dare_."  He shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose again as his forehead wrinkled, struggling for control. "Did you bring cigarettes?"

-

No, that did not deserve congratulations, not even sarcastically. It had all pained Jim, too. Differently, but quite intensely, in a way that never stopped stinging. No, he should not be flattered.

Jim had been about to go to him, but Sherlock's warning stopped him mid-step. Shit. Okay. Backng down might keep him from getting literally thrown out the window, okay, okay, okay. Jim rubbed at his aching face, shook his head minutely. "Didn't, sorry...if you want to go find one, I'll be here when you get back..." Just a suggestion that a walk  _could_ be good to cool Sherlock down. That he looked good so angry wasn't the point... Keeping his distance, Jim had to try another tack to make the point he'd wanted to. "Question for you." He didn't fall to hesitant mumbling for just any person or circumstance. But Sherlock was downright unpredictable just now. And could leave and decide not to come back, if Jim didn't take a backseat to his - gulp - _ex_ -lover's justified pain.

-

Going for cigarettes sounded wonderful. But Sherlock was certain that if he left now, he'd never come back. Unclear if that was his ultimate goal. But if it wasn't, he wasn't going to risk Jim disappearing in the meantime. "Ask," he said simply, turning and resting his forehead against the wall. _But don't make me punch you again._

-

The temptation to go over, wrap his arms around Sherlock, soothe him with closeness and loving touches, was strong. It might take so little! And Jim wanted to ask, if it hurt so bad wasn't Sherlock happy he was back? But the anger _had_ to be given its due. Jim deserved every bit of the vitriol and more. "What did you... _want_ to happen tonight? Honestly." Probably just to ensure it was Jim, alive and well, but if Sherlock asked him to...oh, kill a raging bear with his bare hands right now, Jim'd break into the zoo, find one, do it and drag it back for perusal. An utterly ridiculous notion, but anything under the sun that Sherlock wanted, embraces or to beat Jim to a pulp, anything to make it better. "Can you...trust me enough for five seconds, to tell me?"

-

"Before or after you implied I didn't care, despite _everything_ I demonstrated to the contrary?" Sherlock grumbled, turning over, slumping his back against the wall, gaze carefully avoiding looking at any part of Jim. He shrugged, " _Before_ , perhaps, _right_ before, I held a stupid hope that we might reconcile. Maybe not all at once, but... Now?" He shook his head, "How dare you."

-

"I didn't mean it," Jim stated miserably. "And you're right. Stupid thing to say when you're the one person who cared and wasn't... _paid_ to, okay, I-" He rubbed both hands down his face, smearing his features, trying to clear his thoughts. "I hurt you too much and I can hardly face it, so maybe I wished...I don't know." Jim dropped back to sitting, face in his hands. Reconciliation. Ruined. "Maybe wanted you to hurt me back. Get it all over with."

-

Sherlock wondered if this feeling was pity or revulsion. He hugged himself, craving  _something._ "If punching you brought you any comfort, I regret doing it," he muttered. Because even now, he wasn't happy, three years of _not_ being happy.

-

Of course. Such stubborn words. Jim sighed, wiping at his eyes. His face hurt but his soul hurt more. "Well, that sucks," he sighed. "Because I'd love to give  _you_ any, and have no idea how." They'd been  _tender_ moments ago. Jim had fucked it up. "Have a feeling it'll help if I just shut up altogether..."

-

"Was that you your aim, suggesting you  _weren't_ the love of my life?" Sherlock hissed, vague thoughts of violence returning. "Comforting me?" He rolled his eyes. "Because from my perspective, all that's happened has been somehow beneficial for you." Reminding Jim how he once felt, barely containing that it was how he still felt, detailing what Jim's absence had done...

-

"Alright! Sherlock..." Jim's voice has raised some in frustration with himself, and the way Sherlock must have seen it. "You-- shush, and listen for a minute," he decided aloud, hands dropping from his face as he dared to peek Sherlock's way once more. "Because a few seconds ago, I wanted to come hug you, and you told me not to, so I didn't. But there're...a million and a half things...Look at us. And all this...feeling. You fucking _consumed_ me to the point where all I wanted, every minute. Was to be with you. Change my whole world to make that happen. And that's not what I was afraid of, alright? I was afraid you...felt the same way. And that it would change you. And I never wanted that to happen, darling, because..."

"Eerything about you was perfect in my eyes." Jim's words broke off with the saddest smile. "It still is...And the only problem I see with that. Is that it took me this long to come and _try_ to fix anything, to face this...maybe too long. But Sherlock..." Risking it. Getting punched or worse. It didn't matter. He stood, slowly making his way over to  the detective. "I'd give anything...do anything...tell me what you need, because you'll always be the love of my life, whether you're in it or not, sweetheart..." He'd been approaching slow, tentative, in the end reaching towards Sherlock's hand.

-

Sherlock's eyes followed his hand. An offer. One he wanted. But couldn't help but still lash out. "And leaving. Making me _watch-_ " His voice quivered, swallowing a lump. " _ **That** _ changed me." In ways he couldn't describe. In ways he was still figuring out.

"I wouldn't have been going to Eastern Europe if I wasn't so hell-bent on protecting what little I had left..." Soulmate dead, his last goal was to protect his best friend. Wouldn't have acted so rashly, would've found a way...

  
Sherlock snatched his hand, using the momentum to pull Jim flush against him, eyes cold, staring him down, face to face, _I don't love you._ He couldn't bring himself to say it.

-

Jim's heart wrenched. He'd put Sherlock through too much. Even knowing this, it was still hard to hear. His breath caught as he was tugged close. He'd give anything to see warmth in that gorgeous face again. A smile. In time, perhaps. But for now, Jim felt rather pathetic. Small. "I don't deserve to be near you, I know..." _Christ, just kiss me, then neither of us can say anything awful..._

-

_And yet you are. Yet, I want you to be..._ Tears from Jim... They were different than Sherlock's often-abused fakes. Jim's were reminiscent of tragedy, described everything Sherlock wanted to express the two years he spent working in shameful hope. He closed his eyes, droplets escaping them as he rested their foreheads together. "You're still... Here... In my mind. You would never leave..."

-

A small groan of pain from Jim at the words, at the closeness he couldn't be sure of. But Sherlock was still in _more_ pain. "I haunted you...Honey...m'not a ghost, I'm right here..." Perhaps too close, that the shaky breath Jim drew in and exhaled again mixed with Sherlock's, that the corners of their lips brushed as he spoke. Fuck...He could say so much more with this, than words. With tilting his face the barest fraction until his lips grazed against Sherlock's, soft and parting over them before pursing, Jim's entire soul and mind swimming with the intent to make things right again.

-

Sherlock was on fire. Anger wanted to punch him again for even  _daring_. Lust just wanted. The loneliness begged to be relieved. It felt like backtracking, back to his thoughts of revenge.

But his predominant thought as his free hand clasped the back of Jim's head, burying into his hair, claiming his lips, tongue and teeth out and willing, was _hunger._

-  
Fortune favored the brave, as the saying went, but there was no human precedence for the rush of feeling, for the surprise at being welcomed and pulled in with such need.

It transcended pain and passion both.

This was love tearing at itself, and Jim was starved for it any which way it came.

A sob got muffled as Sherlock's body pressed into his own, giving Jim's arms room enough to slip around his neck and hold tight. The many times he'd thought of this hadn't even crossed the line into perversity; he'd dreamt of connecting again, of being close, a shimmery haze of hope that was fluttering its broken wings again as Sherlock's tongue swiped his own. Glad for the other to cling to or he might keel right over, a hand rose to Sherlock's curls, fingers burying in them and stroking scalp, oh, Sherlock was real and in his arms again and it did nothing to stop the tears, from misery to gratitude. Zero to sixty. Ruin to ravishment. Love given its mode of expression, after three years of the silence of the grave.

So much time wasted that needed making up.

-

To say this moment was  _evertything_ wasn't hyperbole. Sherlock _felt_. Anger, lust, hunger, loneliness were just the beginning. Shame and disgust with himself for caving in... It had been too easy to fall this time, almost literally to his knees, legs weak with anticipation. Adoration was there too, still so hopelessly in love, in awe of the creature in his arms. A surge of energy, and he felt himself, hardly in control, tossing Jim into the wall, on him immediately, pinning his arms away from him, kissing down his face, teeth sinking into his neck, desperate to consume him, to  _mark_ him.

-

_Love you,_ Jim poured into the driving kiss. Could Sherlock hear it in his head? _Love you, always._ He was taking all Jim's breath away, a sensation only magnified when his back hit the wall hard enough almost to knock it out of him, and that alone made Jim keen. _Love you, I'm yours_. Sherlock seemed to know this much, and Jim didn't fight the hold, dazed by the show of emotions that had been pent-up. _Love you_ , he could have said so many times, but his lips were too busy now kissing at Sherlock's jaw, his neck below his ear, erratic coverage of as much skin as he could. _Love you_. But when he spoke it came out a  breathy, husky, "Are you sure- ah! Sherlock..." Shivers shot down his spine at the prolonged bite, and despite the tears and doubt he was immediately hard, a leg wrapping around Sherlock's to bring their hips into alignment. But the physical was a side effect! Was it alright now to speak his mind? It was all so frighteningly close to tumbling off his tongue, and Sherlock might hate hearing it. Stupid to cave to the seemingly oxymoronic truth so soon, but denying it had been the source of so much trouble. "I love you so, it never changed, did it all wrong but I love you..."

-

Sherlock wondered how awful it would be to ask Jim not to say that anymore.

Ever.

Or if shoving a makeshift gag in his mouth would be well received. Something to stop the sharp pain he felt whenever he heard it, and just couldn't hear his own head add, _I'm lying_. Sex was at least honest. He groaned, grinding his hips against Jim's, beyond delighted they seemed to at least be on the same page about _something_. "Not sure..." he grunted back, fingers prying between them, all but ripping at the button and zip on Jim's trousers, "But that doesn't matter..." He slipped his hand under the elastic of his waistband, fingers closing over Jim's cock.

-

He was at a loss! It seemed (perhaps understandably) Sherlock wanted to shut him up, and Jim had to admit both that it  _did_ matter and, in so heated a moment,  _really_ didn't. Except wouldn't that be pretty revenge, Sherlock riling him up only to leave him... A reasonable fear, but it was as much the  _need_ to touch the other that made Jim wrench his hands free, one slipping up and the other down. A moan was ripped from Jim at the arousing squeeze, but it seemed altogether too fast to be real. "Sher-" Caressing Sherlock's cheek and lips with his thumb, the other hand a pressure of curved palm against his trapped length, "Look at me..." Not knowing whether he'd be kissed or slapped, Jim's searching eyes were as hungry as his kisses had been.

-

Sherlock barely stifled a groan of disappointment. Maybe this wasn't the best way to deal with his problems, but who was Jim to try and talk sense into him? But forcing him wasn't an option. He let his offending hand go, but it stayed loosely in his pants. He obliged, looking at Jim, pupils blown, "Yes?"

-

No, no, no, stopping didn't feel _half_ as good as keeping going. Jim knew there might be hell to pay, but there was fire in Sherlock's eyes if not warmth, and that was enough a touch of the criminal's personal heaven. Shaking his head hurriedly, he panted out, "Never mind." Jim's hand slid to his nape, dragging him down for another crash of a kiss, as much Sherlock's predator then as willing prey, fingers tugging up sections of tucked-in shirt until he could rake his nails over the sensitive flesh of Sherlock's side. Quicker and dirtier than he would've imagined their first time together again, but whatever worked to close the gap, Jim reasoned as his hand slid back, giving Sherlock's arse a gripping, possessive squeeze.

-

At least he seemed to be learning quickly. Sherlock gave an approving hum, lips already parted, working with Jim's, each swipe of tongue overly decadent.  A small yelp escaped him at the squeeze, retaliating with short, quick strokes, the drag of Jim's nails spurring him on.

-

For someone once referred to as 'more than a man', all it took was Sherlock Holmes to  _reduce_ him. Iceman couldn't crack Jim's brain, but Sherlock swept it to the side so easily, turned it off and on at the same time. Jim hadn't been touched by another person in nearly four months! He was little more now than weak knees, breathless moans, a heart that was skipping beats every few seconds, a touch nearer the edge than he should've been. Sherlock might hate everything Jim had thoughtlessly reduced him to, but he wanted Jim still. Or at least wanted to break him, bring him down to some version of nothing. Well, it was working. The only retaliation was to return the favor, Jim's fingers wandering to Sherlock's fly, undoing it. "That Janine...as fun as I used to be?" he couldn't help asking, taunting as he wrapped trembling fingers around Sherlock's cock, forgetting that he didn't deserve any of this as he began to stroke, mouth breaking away to graze teeth over Sherlock's neck. Wanted so to mark, bruise, leave _reminders_ , but was just aware enough of the perils of the outside world to be merciful.

-

Sherlock moaned, deep and ragged. _No. No one's as fun as you..._ he mused, hips bucking into his hand. No one, ever. Sherlock hadn't allowed many people to touch him at all (Janine only able to claim the barest of touches at that), and thus far, Jim was the most  _attentive_. Almost innately, before his faked death, the criminal knew how to obliterate any sense of distress, simply by touch. Even now, it was difficult to keep spite alive. But that wouldn't stop him. Spite had been there when Jim had not. " _Better,"_ he countered, removing his hand from Jim only to lick it, returning it with more fervor, less friction to slow him.

-

Jim had set himself up for that biting reply, and he couldn't help laughing. Fondly, rich and genuine and dark before it trailed into a moan. "Ohhh...that's how it's going to be, hm..." he purred, going slacker from the sheer relaxing force that was mirth and lust combined, head falling back against the wall with a gentle thud. The hand at Sherlock's nape drew him in once more, lips curved in a smile, arm muscles tensing and flexing in rhythm as he pumped Sherlock. He wanted to press them together, work them both with one hand, wanted to remind Sherlock there was no one better, thoughts and memories all running rampant and hot together. "You're such a liar," Jim rasped, because suddenly he was  _allowed_ past the grief and regret to remember all the fun they'd had, and had he supplies handy, might be begging Sherlock to fuck him clear into the drywall. As it was his fingers tightened, strokes slowing but purposefully, wrist twisting on the way up, the squeeze into which Sherlock thrust wonderfully, reminiscently tight.

-

Jim knew him too well not to catch him in his lie; Sherlock should've known better. But oh, that could be fun on its own, "Wishful thinking..." Sherlock tutted, the effect of which somewhat dampened by his heavy breathing, but it certainly wouldn't stop him. "She could be _oh_ so creative and depraved... Is that just an Irish thing?" He wasn't going to last at all, half of it just due to it being _Jim_ , a beautiful pleasure he'd never thought he could have again. Even the smell of his cologne, the scratch of his stubble on his neck was very nearly pornography to his senses. His free hand hooked under Jim's chin, applying pressure to his neck, pressing his windpipe back into the wall, quite done feeling like he was losing at his own game.

-

There was something to be said for keeping Sherlock talking, no matter what flew out of his mouth. Jim had missed that voice so much, even in provocation - had she really been so devious? How rude to say so, as was the stereotype! Jim evinced offended surprise for all of a half-second before remembering Sherlock would say _anything_ to wind him up right now; he managed a barely audible growl of, "So lucky you're pretty," in response, palm sliding over Sherlock's tip to catch some slick before returning to stroking. That Sherlock was _leaking_ , barely holding it together was a massive boost of excitement in itself, but the raw violence of the next touch nearly did Jim in then and there. Trapped. Imperiled. Trusting that Sherlock  _probably_ wouldn't kill him, but who could say for sure? Eyes wide, Jim gasped for air beneath the restricting hand, a whimper in his throat as he stared at Sherlock, took in every detail of his parted lips and perfect face, so beautiful even in bitterness. "H-harder-" Pressure built and Jim was teetering on the edge of reality, shaking and desperate, hand a blur as he tried to drag Sherlock down in the same devastating current, his love's name a breathless, broken, helpless shout as he came.

-

"Ge-genetics is all about luck..." Sherlock stuttered, hissing, too close to the edge to keep composed. Even Jim's plea was a bit too late, hand tensing, leaning as much weight as was still mostly safe as his knees began to buckle. Feeling the rewarding burst, watching as Jim gave over was enough of a push and he was falling into a white flash, hand squeezing for a lingering second before letting go. His entire body felt then like lead, overlaying Jim's, threatening to engulf him, head resting atop the shorter man's. At least for a moment, he could think of nothing but how peaceful it was. That he had permission to stop grieving...

-

Jim sighed out as the wave of pleasure was over far too quickly, the mindless contentment one he could only hope would linger a little while yet. His hand dropped away from Sherlock, the other clutching the back of his neck gently as Jim nuzzled his forehead against warm skin, catching his breath. Well. Clothes a mess, heat subdued, but...this closeness...No words for how much he'd longed for it, even if it felt more hollow and strange than it used to. Sherlock's fingers had loosened on his neck but could likely feel Jim's racing pulse begin to slow, and it seemed wise to let the silence reign just now.

-

For a moment, it was wonderful.

Every doubt and nag in his head had silenced. He could relish in bliss, and for a second  _pretend_ it wasn't all a lie.

But the moment was fleeting. No longer blinded by the haze of arousal, Sherlock could properly be disgusted with himself. "Well that was..." He straightened up, stepping back, fixing his wrinkled outfit, smoothing down his hair. "Cleansing." He finished after careful deliberation.

-

_No, stay, be warm...Damn it_. Jim watched Sherlock warily, slumping a shoulder against the wall as he tucked himself back in, zipped up. "Here I thought you were gonna say meaningless," he murmured, clearing his throat, pink blooming across his cheeks. Snark wasn't _helpful_ , but Sherlock had darted away offensively quickly... "Glad you didn't," he added softly, reaching again for Sherlock's hand to reel him in.

-

Sherlock twitched his hand away, frown returning with an almost bored air.

"Meaningless," he added, looking him over. Cruel, and he hated saying it, especially to Jim. But it was better this way. Couldn't get hurt again if he didn't let him close. "Or at least, very nearly." The smallest of mercies, if it could even be considered as such. He tugged his collar back into place, gaze traveling back to the ceiling. "And it won't happen again."

-

Predictable, all of it. Maybe even fair. But that didn't much ease the sting of the words.

Jim rubbed idly at his throat where Sherlock's hand had been, wondering if there'd be a bruise. He hoped so. The easy and most truthful route would be to tell Sherlock he was lying to himself, lying to them both, and that Jim knew why. But if he was going to be stroppy and distant after their first encounter in three years, Jim was under no obligation to make it easy. "That's fine," he said levelly, but still soft, never taking his eyes off the other's face. "It's hardly what I missed most about you."

-

Sherlock hummed. How Jim could be so unaffected was beyond him, if he _really_ loved him, rather than a lie in the heat of the moment. "Is it time to reminisce then?" he asked, swallowing, not sure he wanted to have this conversation. Memories, scars, had a way of breaking his composure. "Because what I miss, I can never have back."

-

And Jim could tell, just from that visible bob in Sherlock's throat, that something had gotten through. He bit the inside of his cheek for a long moment, and continued almost as if Sherlock hadn't spoken. "I miss the after part," he offered up. "When we'd lie there, curled up to each other...Make each other laugh...Get to relax, get to find some damn peace for once, away from the rest of the world...Talk about science, and murder, and music...You'd fall asleep smiling, and it just...made everything right for awhile...S'that the part you miss, too?" Because if Sherlock gave Jim half a chance, getting it back may not be all that impossible.

-

_In a way._ Sherlock felt like he'd been kicked in the stomach, breath hitching as he let it out. "Yes." He turned around, walking to the door, covertly wiping away tears. "But that is a... Beautiful symptom." He pulled the coat off the hook with quivering hands, another wave of tears breaking through. He'd spent so many nights like that. Everything had felt fine, even when the world outside their bed wasn't. "The essence..." He tossed his arms into his sleeves, using the wool on his wrists to clear his face again, walking back to sit on the bed, near the headboard, face downcast, hands shoved in his pockets. "I miss trusting you."

-

Jim hadn't meant to strike a nerve so hard it would make Sherlock _flee_. But then he didn't. The simple statement brought all the guilt back. It was hard to live with. Should've known the respite wouldn't last long. He wanted everything he'd just remembered aloud, but with four words, Sherlock rendered them unattainable. What could he possibly say in response? "Well." Jim looked down, thinking it more respectful to pretend he hadn't seen the tears than to feed on and expand the reason for them.

"I won't rush you. Won't even...text you, if that's what you'd prefer." Because more silence was just the ticket, yeah right. He sighed. "But if you ever missed me enough to give me the chance...to see if I'm worth trusting again...I'll be around." He swallowed hard. "Probably wait forever willingly, when it comes to you."

-

The idea was great, and yet somehow horrifying. Radio silence after three years of wishing he could get just  _one_ last word. Yet now he seemed to _need_ it, Jim's very presence spawning poison in his heart.

"How kind of you," he murmured, rubbing down a chill on his arm. _Such a martyr, not talking to me after...not talking to me._ And still, the urge to hurt him more was still alive, his right hand still in his pocket, fingers brushing over the cold steel of his handcuffs. That was an idea. He stood up. "I should go, then..." he bit his bottom lip, turning to Jim, extending his left hand. "Forever?" Sherlock asked, quirking a brow.

-

_Or you could just **not** go, that would be nice... _ But the offer Jim just made, promised space and time. Even if begrudging, he couldn't offer it then beg it back, though his eyes may have silently been doing just that. _Way to man up and take the heat, just send it away! Great_. Jim looked down at the proffered hand, frowning some. Left? He knew that trick, he _invented_ that trick...but if he wanted Sherlock's trust, he had to give his own.

But a handshake...bad memories, and paltry besides. "Yeah. Forever." Pathetic as it sounded. But he had no one else now, nor would want anyone else. Jim curled his fingers into Sherlock's but didn't intertwine them, simply pressed them into his palm, finding it a warm spot despite all the surrounding chill.

-

Sherlock sighed, offering a sad smile. He could almost _feel_ Jim's remorse, eating away at them both, as if they were still so connected that it mattered... But 'Forever' might be exactly how long it took to get over this. He tightened his grip, worried he miscalculated, a little too far from the bed to do this comfortably. On a whim, a duplicitous one filled with motive and the fact he _did_ miss the After he'd denied himself, he pulled their joined hands to his chest, dragging him into a kiss.

-

The choking had been fun, alright, but this was more along the lines of how Jim always pictured they'd spend the time upon his return. Hunger sated, the kiss was soft, sweet enough to make his soul ache, make his eyes squeeze shut against it. Sherlock, Sherlock. Jim didn't know what to think anymore, giving a plaintive and pretty little moan, part surprise and part yearning as he returned the kiss, and maybe if it was as sweet to Sherlock, he'd change his mind and stay. Anathema to that cool distanced shell, but Jim had broken it before long ago, why couldn't he now? His lips brushed Sherlock's sensuously, pursing over the lower one to stroke it with his tongue, a frisson of the heart's sad and pure _longing_ making him shiver.

-

It was so genuine, this whole encounter had been, Sherlock was almost prepared to feel bad. But Jim... He had three years to do this. In the face of all the facts, it was hard to muster any sympathy. He returned the kiss with more _aggression_ than Jim, walking them backward, guiding them back to the bed before his right hand withdrew, cuffs undone at the ready.

Almost instantaneously, one end clicked around the wrist Sherlock was holding, the other looped through a decorative gap in the headboard. Some tug of his conscienc kept him close, offering Jim a wry grimace as he picked his pocket for his mobile.  
-

Jim should've known better.

Sebastian's ghost was probably laughing his arse off right about now.

Sherlock had every right.

The criminal felt his heart break just a little bit more. He knew, from an intelligent distance, that Sherlock needed his little victories just now. But that kiss...yeah, trust was going to be a serious issue on both ends.

Jaw tightening, his eyes went from unspeakably regretful to narrowed suspicion, free hand giving Sherlock a shove in the abdomen to try and keep him away from his pocket. Anger bubbled. "The hell-- What do you even want with it, if you give it to your brother he'll know you've seen me..." _And that this was probably **all** a trick..._ came the too-late realization. Slightly stunned, Jim sat on the bed, shoulders slumped.

-

" _I_ want nothing to do with it." Sherlock answered simply, staggering away, tossing the phone to the far corner of the room with a flick of the wrist. He let Jim settle as he pulled the corded phone out of the wall, shucking it aside, out of reach as well. This was easier, clinical in procedure. He pulled out the key, walking over to his discarded wine glass, placing it inside. "You don't get help on this," he sighed, collapsing against the wall, "And I hope you escape before the police get here." _Because this time, you won't get a trial. And Mycroft will never let you walk._

-

Jim's gaze tracked the phone, head lifted sharply in indignation when it was tossed. But not taken. Relief. There were pictures on there he would never have wanted to lose.

"If you _hoped_ that you wouldn't be doing this," Jim sighed, already wondering what part of the bed or nightstand he could take apart to make a lockpick. "You're ticked now, sure, but do you even know how it feels to have one decision change the course of-" Well, Sherlock did some. "Forget it. Fuck it. If this is how you want to finish things, fine. Guess it's easier. If I'm dead for good you don't need to adjust or analyze any of what you _feel_. Have it your way, Sherlock." Jim sounded surprisingly tired for a man coming off a three-year vacation.

-

Sherlock scoffed, head lightly tossed back, tapping the wall. "Wonderful to hear you're beginning to get some perspective beyond your own. Development looks good on you," he half-teased, pocketing his hands once more, pushing off the wall. "You're clever. I'm not worried." Especially since he wouldn't be contacting the police at all. The threat just sounded better in his mind. "But if you're so interested in the psychological, take solace in the fact that I needed to betray you, at least a little, before I decide to move forward."

-

Jim glowered. Everything Sherlock said made perfect sense, but shouldn't be encouraged long-term. This was not cool, overall. He couldn't trust that moving forward would include him, and after kisses just to handcuff him to the bed... "Leave me alone, I have handcuffs to _MacGyver_."

-

"Mm." Sherlock shrugged. Yes, he did. But talking, _explaining_ right now was important, and owed to both of them. "If, after you escape, the point you need to take away from this..." He leaned over, catching Jim's eye, " _Nothing_ can ever be the same."

-

Jim had half a mind to bite him in the face. But he didn't. He was entirely still, expression turned to stone, and he seemed to look _through_ Sherlock, as it was easier than meeting his eyes for real. 'Maybe reconcile', bullshit. Bullshit from the very start, and Jim refused to let him see again tonight how much that hurt. He might decide to make Sherlock regret this new declaration, or simply give it time. He changed his mind often, after all, so any threats might be empty ones. "You'll wish it could be. And that's enough for me. Besides...Forever's probably too long, anyway."

-

Jim's coldness was to be expected. It was only natural to rebuff at this point, when all his attempts had been so obviously rejected. Still, the way Jim's eyes, no recognition, no love anymore in stark contrast to moments ago... It was impossible _not_ to be hurt. "Yeah..." Sherlock agreed, turning and heading for the door.

There was so much more to be said. How he was still in love, just suffering without an outlet. How the one person he could've talked to years ago was the one person he couldn't. How he had wanted to spend his entire life with him... But Jim must've known this. To say it again would be beating a long-decayed horse. All he could say was, "I always will."

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> (This is likely a one-off since a portion of the rest was lost. If anyone clamors for it, might post some, but this can stand alone and be okay. Well, not okay exactly...)


End file.
